by Simon Brett
Charles did not feel so certain of that. He felt sure that if the knives had not been to hand, the murderer would have found some other method. But it was not the moment to voice such suspicions. ‘Pam, you really mustn’t blame yourself. Even if you did mix the knives up. And it’s quite possible that you didn’t. Somebody else may have been playing about with them and made the mistake. I mean, presumably they were just lying round the house, so anyone could get at them?’ He left the question hanging disingenuously in the air.
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
‘Toy knives have a fascination for people. Anyone might have started fooling around with them. How long were they there?’
‘I was up late finishing them on Monday night. And I left them out on the table till the next morning.’
‘Why? So that the paint could dry?’
‘Yes, but it didn’t actually. I got some awful oily lacquer that stayed sticky for ages.’
‘Was the real knife with the others?’
‘Yes, it was. You see, it was daft, but I was sort of rather proud of the ones I’d made because they did look so realistic. So I left them all out on the table.’
‘So that people would see them when they came down to breakfast?’
‘Yes.’ She looked sheepish. ‘I haven’t made lots of things and I thought they looked good.’
‘They did. Look very good.’ He almost added ‘Unfortunately’, but realised that might be tactless. ‘So then they were put away while people had breakfast?’
‘Yes, I put them in a carrier bag, and I thought I left the real one in a box with my scissors and sellotape and glue and all that rubbish.’
‘And they stayed in your carrier bag in the sitting-room till you brought them down to the hail at about three o’clock?’
‘Yes.’
‘So there was lots of time for anyone in the house to play around with them during the day and mix them up?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You weren’t there during the morning?’
‘No, I had to go out to buy some cardboard and stuff.’
‘Well, I should think that’s what happened. Someone was fooling about with them on the Tuesday morning and mixed them up.’ It was not what he really meant, but Pam looked reassured. What he did mean was that the knives had been on show for every member of the company, that the murderer had realised their potential and arranged the switch when the sitting-room was empty at some point during the Tuesday morning. Then he had had to wait and see what happened. Which might well have been nothing. The chances were that someone would notice the real knife before the stabbing could take place, and the murderer would have to find another method. But the impatience of the photographer at the photo-call had given no one time to inspect their weapons closely.
Though the murder method was now clear, the identity of its deviser remained obscure. From Pam’s account, virtually anyone who was in the house on the Tuesday morning could have switched the knives. And that meant virtually every member of the D.U.D.S. company. Which in turn meant checking everyone’s movements. Which sounded a long, boring process.
‘Did you know Willy Mariello well?’ Charles tried another tack.
Pam blushed. ‘No, hardly at all.’
‘But you must have seen him round the University.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘During term-time. If he was involved in the Dramatic Society.’
‘Oh, but he wasn’t. He was nothing to do with the University.’
‘Then where did he come from?’
‘He used to play with Puce.’
‘What?’
‘The rock band. He was lead guitar. Until they broke up earlier this year. Oh, come on, you’ve heard of Puce.’
Charles had to confess he hadn’t.
They walked back to Coates Gardens together. Pam seemed calmer; she had almost recaptured her customary bounce. A nice girl. No beauty, but good-natured. Needed a man who appreciated her.
She was telling him about her parents’ home in Somerset as they entered the hall. At that moment Anna Duncan came out of the Office. ‘Hello,’ said Charles. She grinned.
Pam paused in mid-sentence: He realised his rudeness. ‘I’m so sorry. I . . . what were you saying?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t important. I’d better get on with my wall.’ And she disappeared gracelessly downstairs.
‘Taking other women out when you’ve already stood me up,’ said Anna with mock reproach.
‘I hardly think we’d have had a very relaxed dinner with policemen taking statements between courses.’
‘No, I didn’t mean it.’
‘Rehearsing tonight?’
‘Finishing at half past eight.’
‘Shall we pretend the last two days haven’t happened, and pick up where we left off?’
‘That sounds a nice idea.’
‘Shall I see you here?’
‘No. If Mike gives us another of his rolling about on the floor workshops, I’ll need to go back to the flat and have a quick bath.’
‘Well, let’s meet at the restaurant. Do you know L’Etoile?’
‘In Grindlay Street?’
‘That’s the one. I’ll book a table for half past nine. O.K.?’
‘Fine. I must get back upstairs and pretend to be a banana.’
‘Another of Michael Vanderzee’s wonderful ideas?’
‘Yes. The perception through inanimate transference of pure emotion.’
‘Wow.’
Anna grinned again and left. Charles knocked on the office door. If Brian was back, perhaps it would be possible to arrange some rehearsal time at the Masonic Hall.
The Company Manager was wearing another executive suit, this time a beige three-piece. Charles explained his requirements and was not wholly reassured by Brian’s assurance that he’d sort it out and the movement of some coloured strips on the wall-chart. There are certain sorts of efficiency which do not inspire confidence.
The efficiency had obviously been at work on the ‘What the Press says about D.U.D.S.’ board. It was smothered with cuttings about the death of Willy Mariello. The one person to have made a definite profit from the killing was the disgruntled Glaswegian photographer. He seemed to have sold the pictures to every newspaper in the country. Charles felt a frisson of shock at seeing the scene again. ‘You’re not actually going to use those as publicity?’
‘No,’ said Brian regretfully, ‘wouldn’t be quite the thing. Not to display them. Mind you, it is an amazing spread. It’s really fixed the name of D.U.D.S. in people’s minds. Better than any publicity stunt you could devise. I remember last year Cambridge staged something about pretending Elizabeth Taylor was in Edinburgh. They got a girl to dress up as her and so on. Quite a lot of coverage. But nothing like this.’
The note of unashamed satisfaction in Brian’s voice made Charles look at him curiously. Insensitivity of that order would be wasted in the Civil Service; he should try for advertising or television. ‘I’m sure Willy would be glad to think that his life was lost in the cause of full houses for the D.U.D.S.’
‘Yes, it’s an ill wind.’ Brian was impervious to irony.
‘One thing . . . I was interested to hear that Willy Mariello wasn’t a member of the University.’
‘No.’
‘How did he come to be involved in this then?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose he was a friend of someone.’
‘Who? Do you know?’
‘No. I don’t know any of them very well. I wasn’t in D.U.D.S. I was Chairman of Ducker.’
‘Ducker?’
‘D.U.C.A. Derby University Conservative Association.’
‘Oh.’
‘They only brought me into this because of my administrative ability.’
The men’s dormitory was mercifully empty and Charles managed an undisturbed run of So Much Comic, So Much Blood. He was encouraged to find how much he remembered. The intonation of the poems came back naturally and he began
to feel the rhythm of the whole show. A bit more work and it could be quite good.
So he felt confident as he sat opposite Anna in the French restaurant in Grindlay Street. Her appearance contributed to his mood. The ‘quick bath’ back at her flat had included a flattering amount of preparation. Just-pressed pale yellow shirt with a silly design of foxtrotting dancers on it, beautifully cut black velvet trousers. Eyelashes touched with mascara, lip-coloured lipstick, cropped hair flopping with controlled abandon. All very casual, but carefully done.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing the show. I’m sorry, as I said, I don’t know anything about Hood.’
‘Not many people do.’
‘Was he Scottish?’
‘No. His father came from Dundee, but Thomas himself only went there a couple of times. Wasn’t very struck with it either. Particularly the cooking. “I sicken with disgust at sight of a singed sheep’s head. I cannot bring myself to endure oatmeal, which I think harsh, dry and insipid. The only time I ever took it with any kind of relish was one day on a trouting party, when I was hungry enough to eat anything.” Sorry, I’ve just been working on it, hence the long trailer.’
‘What do you do in the show—dress up as Hood?’
‘No, it wouldn’t work. I don’t like all that emotive bit—this is what the bloke was really like. It seems to remove the subject from reality rather than making him more real. Like historical novels about Famous People. I’m just an interpreter of Hood’s work; I don’t pretend to be him. Let the poems and lyrics speak for themselves. Certainly in the case of the poems, it would falsify them to read them in character. They were written as public entertainments to be recited and that’s how I treat them.’
‘So it’s more a sort of recital than an acting thing?’
‘I suppose so. It’s mid-way between. And it has the great advantage that I don’t have to learn it all and can actually refer to the book when I want to.’
‘Handy. So you just wear ordinary clothes for it?’
‘A suit, maybe. I’d look daft dressed as Thomas Hood anyway. I haven’t the figure of a stunted Victorian consumptive.’
‘He was another one, was he?’
‘Yes. Hence the So Much Blood of the title. Actually there is some question as to whether it was consumption—T.B. or not T.B. It may have been rheumatic heart disease. But he spat blood, that’s the main thing. It was very difficult to be a literary figure in Victorian times without spitting blood. Healthy writers started at an enormous disadvantage.’
Anna laughed. ‘If he was ill, I think you’re showing great restraint in not acting it out. Most actors leap at the chance of doing hacking coughs and their dramatic dying bit.’
‘So do I. But unfortunately it wouldn’t be right for this show. Oh, I’ve died with the best of them. You should have heard my death rattle as Richard II after Sir Pierce of Exton stabbed me.’
There was a moment’s pause. They were both thinking the same, both seeing Willy Mariello lying on the stage at the Masonic Hall. Anna went pale.
‘Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘It’s all right. It’s just . . . so recent.’
‘Yes.’ Charles hesitated. He had decided to investigate Willy’s death, but dinner with Anna was not intended to be part of that investigation; her attraction for him was not primarily as a source of information. On the other hand, here was someone who knew all the people involved, and the conversation had come round to the subject. The detective instinct overcame his baser ones. ‘Did you know Willy well?’
‘No, I wouldn’t say well. I knew him.’
‘I was amazed to discover that he wasn’t at the University. How on earth did he get involved with your lot?’
‘Oh, he . . . You know he used to play with a band?’
‘Yes. Puce.’
‘That’s right. They came and did a gig at our Student’s Union. I think Willy stayed around a bit. It was just round the period the band broke up. He must have met the drama lot then.’
‘And somebody asked him to do this show?’
‘I suppose so, yes. Because he lived in Edinburgh and was kind of at a loose end. He wrote all the music, you see. I think he wanted to do something different, after the band.’
‘Mary, Queen of Sots sounds pretty different. You don’t know if he made any particular friends at Derby?’
‘No.’ She seemed to remember something. ‘Oh, yes. Sam. Sam Wasserman. He’s the guy who wrote Mary. I think Willy was friendly with him. Probably it was Sam who asked him to do the music.’
‘I don’t think I’ve met Sam.’
‘No. He’s not up here. On holiday in Europe somewhere. He’s American so it has to be Europe rather than any specific country. They seem to think Europe is just one country.’
‘So Sam’s not likely to be up here at all?’
‘I think he’s coming up for the opening of Mary.’
‘When’s that?’
‘Third week. Opens on the 2nd September.’
‘Ah.’ A week after Charles’ engagement finished. No chance of picking Sam Wasserman’s brains. The investigation did not seem to be proceeding very fast. He decided that he would forget it for the rest of the evening. ‘How’s your show going?’
‘Mary’s still all over the place. We spend so much time improvising and so on, we hardly ever get near the actual script.’
‘And the revue?’
‘Still bits. Bits are O.K. One or two of the songs are quite exciting, but . . . I don’t know. See what the audience thinks on the first night.’
‘Monday. I’ll be there. Hmm. I wonder what I should call my opening. A first lunch?’
‘Why not? I’ll come and see it, rehearsals permitting.’
‘Good.’ Charles refilled her glass from the cold bottle of Vouvray. ‘Do you want to make the theatre your career?’
‘Yes.’ No hesitation. ‘Always have. Totally stage-struck.’
‘Hmm.’
‘There was a world of cynicism in that grunt. You, I take it, are not stage-struck?’
‘More stage-battered at my age.’
‘Don’t you still find it exciting?’
‘Not very often, no. I can’t really imagine doing anything else, but as a profession it leaves a lot to be desired. Like money, security . . .’
‘I know.’
‘There’s a lot more to it than talent. You need lots of help. You have to be tough and calculating.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m sorry. I sound awfully middle-aged. I think the prime reason for that is that I am awfully middle-aged. No, it’s just that I’d hate to think of anyone going into the business who didn’t know what it was about.’
‘I do know.’
‘Yes. So you’re prepared for all that unemployment they talk about, sitting by the telephone, sleeping with fat old directors.’
‘I only sleep with who I want to sleep with.’ She gave him the benefit of a stare from the navy blue eyes. It was difficult to interpret whether it was a come-on or a rebuff.
He laughed the conversation on to another tack and they cheerfully talked their way through coq au vin, lemon sorbet, a second bottle of Vouvray, coffee and brandy.
The Castle loomed darkly to their left as they climbed up Johnstone Terrace, but it seemed benign rather than menacing. Charles’ arm fitted naturally round the curve of Anna’s waist and he could feel the sheen of her skin through the cotton shirt. Edinburgh had regained its magic.
She stopped by a door at the side of a souvenir shop on the Lawnmarket. The city was empty, primly correct, braced for the late-night crowds that the Festival was soon to bring.
‘Good Lord, do you live here? A flat full of kilts and whisky shortbread and bagpipe salt-cellars?’
‘On the top floor.’
‘That’s a long way up.’
‘A friend’s flat. Student at the University here. Away for the summer.’
‘Ah. All yours.’
‘Yes. Do you want to come in?’
‘What for?’ Charles asked fatuously.
She was not at all disconcerted and turned the amused navy blue stare on him. ‘Coffee?’
‘Had coffee.’
‘Drink?’
‘Had brandy.’
‘Well, we’ll have to think of something else.’
They did.
CHAPTER FOUR
And the faulty scent is picked out by the hound;
And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground;
And the matter gets wind to waft it about;
And a hint goes abroad and the murder is out.
A TALE OF A TRUMPET
HE WAS ALONE in the bed when he awoke. There was a note on the pillow. GONE TO REHEARSAL. IF I DON’T SEE YOU DURING THE DAY, SEE YOU TONIGHT? He smiled and rolled out of bed to make some leisurely coffee.
He drank it at the window, looking down on shoppers and tourists, foreshortened by the distance, scurrying like crabs across the dark cobbles of the Lawnmarket. He thought of Anna’s brown body with its bikini streaks of white, and felt good. The cynicism which normally attended his sex life was not there. An exceptional girl. Willy Mariello’s death became less important.
Rehearsal for an opening in four days’ time, on the other hand, was important. He finished the coffee and set out for Coates Gardens.
Martin Warburton was sprawled over a camp-bed in the men’s dormitory, reading. Reading So Much Comic . . . , Charles noticed with annoyance. The boy looked up as he entered. His expression was calmer than usual and he was even polite. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be reading this. But it was on your bed. I started it and got interested.’
Given such a compliment, however unintentional, Charles could not really complain. ‘There’s more to Hood than many people think.’
‘I don’t know. Is there? I mean he’s clever, there’s a lot of apparent feeling, but when you get down to it, there’s not much there. No certainty. All those puns. It’s because he doesn’t want to define things exactly. Doesn’t want anything to define him. There’s nothing you can identify with.’
It was a surprisingly perceptive judgement. ‘You think that’s important, identifying?’
